


Harry Potter and the Order of Chaos

by centreoftheselights



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality - Less Wrong
Genre: Alternate Universe, Future Fic, Multi, Rationalist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-20
Updated: 2011-11-26
Packaged: 2017-10-28 04:36:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/303789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/centreoftheselights/pseuds/centreoftheselights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four years after the events of Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality, Harry, Hermione and Draco enter their fifth year at Hogwarts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Quietude

**Author's Note:**

> Although labelled 'Harry Potter' this fanfiction is actually a recursive fanfiction for [Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5782108/1/Harry_Potter_and_the_Methods_of_Rationality) by Less Wrong. To really enjoy this fic, you should probably first read that one. In fact, you should read that one anyway. It's awesome. But if you utterly refuse to, the short story is that Harry was raised by a scientist and now everything is different.
> 
> For those familiar with Methods of Rationality, this is a future!(rationalist!Harry) [Q: are character tags associative?] set in Harry's fifth year at Hogwarts. As such, it may become an AU if, at any point, canon updates disagree drastically with my wild guesses at what might happen to Harry in the future. Or if I come up with any cool ideas. Or if I get bored and disintegrate into shipping.
> 
> You have been warned.

On the upper levels of the Ministry of Magic, it was often difficult to find anywhere that could honestly be called quiet. Near constantly, people bustled in and out, delivering messages too important to be entrusted to the crowd of aeroplanes which darted overhead, skewering the unwary or unusually tall in their race to the top members of the government of Wizarding Britain. In the crowded corridors, it was unusual to pass a dozen metres without having to skirt around some vital murmured conversation sparked by a chance encounter. All around, there was an aura of communication, a low muttering whisper which to outsiders sometimes seemed just as likely to contain idle office gossip as the vital inner workings of a nation – particularly, someone had once observed, if those outsiders were regular readers of the Daily Prophet.

The one exception to the ever present discussions was also the subject of more than a few of them; a bastion of calm enclosed on all sides by thick, and some said curse proof, walls, and utterly inaccessible, for all but the most highly ranked, without a prior appointment: the Minister's Office.

It was there, within that precious bubble of silence, that Fudge now sat, regarding with some curiosity the woman opposite him.

Although he had been acquainted with her for many years, he still felt he knew little about her. That state of affairs was not unusual in such a busy office, but what little he did know had only served to heighten his curiosity. She was loyal, both to the Ministry itself and to Fudge personally and, unlike far too many of his staff, she seemed somewhat incorruptible. If everything he had observed of her was to be believed, she was that rarest of things – a politician truly devoted to the good of the nation and the upholding of its rightful government, and willing to do close to anything in the service of that cause.

"Dolores," he began. "Tell me – did you ever consider another career?"

She smiled sweetly, a sight which would strike terror into the heart of any Junior Undersecretary, and had once been, rumour had it, the last sight ever seen by one particularly rude copy boy.

"Why, I don't believe so," she said. "I began working for the Ministry straight out of Hogwarts. I never had reason to consider it."

"What about teaching?"

Umbridge's look of confusion disappeared as she realised what this was about. Although she did not always look it, Dolores had proven herself to be exceedingly intelligent on more than one occasion in the past – as top-level employees almost invariably were, if one was prepared to look hard enough. It was this intelligence, her loyalty, and above all her reputation for utter ruthlessness, which made her perfect for the task at hand.

"Hogwarts is a great tradition of this country," she said carefully. "If it were offered, I would relish the opportunity to pass on my experience to the next generation of wizard-kind."

"But unfortunately," Fudge continued. "Hogwarts has been somewhat unlucky as of late."

Dolores nodded. "The unfortunate death of Mr Diggory has generated a certain amount of negative attention."

"Of course, it would be a terrible loss if Hogwarts were to fail." Fudge smiled. "The Ministry cannot be seen to be complacent about such a national treasure."

"We must protect our country's heritage."

"Provide a watchful eye."

"Show our concern."

"Ensure accountability."

"Make sure everything is in order."

They had understood each other perfectly so far. But there was one question which could not go unanswered.

"Precisely," Fudge nodded. "For without order, there is chaos."

Umbridge's face was suddenly blank. She had heard the rumours, then – by now, who hadn't? But was she involved? He suspected that, if she knew more, she would have prepared a better reaction.

After all, she was in politics.

"Order is infinitely preferable," she said quietly.

"I agree." Fudge got to his feet, walking her to the door. "Thank you for your time, Dolores."

"Thank you, Minister."

He opened the door onto the thrum of the outer office, which quietened not inconsiderably at the sight of one of its most feared overseers.

Yes, Fudge thought to himself as Dolores walked away. Umbridge was the right person for the job.

If anyone could do it, she could.

 

Platform Nine and Three Quarters was a big place – larger than many of Hogwarts students realised. Certainly, it had surprised Evan that, while searching for a bathroom, he had somehow managed to stray away from the crowds, the tearful parents and the enthusiastic greetings of friends reunited after a long summer, and that he now found himself frightened and alone in the smoke.

It had been more frightening, although perhaps less surprising, to discover that he was not, in fact, alone.

"Why, look what we have here?" called a horribly familiar voice. "Gryffidiot can't find his way back to the train."

A high pitched laugh. He had brought his girlfriend, then. Those were the worst times, when there was someone to cheer him on. At first, Evan had thought he might hold back in front of her, but she wasn't at all squeamish. She seemed to enjoy it even more than he did.

Evan's hand went to his pocket, but his wand was still in his backpack with his other belongings. He had thought he would be safe on the platform. Clearly, he had gotten into bad habits over the summer, and now he was going to have to pay the price.

He spun around to face his tormentors.

They were not looking at him, but had, in turn, turned to face an approaching figure, shrouded in the September mist.

They had been followed. Perhaps he was not the only one who had lost his edge over the summer.

"You know," said a voice instantly familiar to all three. "This really isn't behaviour befitting of the name of Hogwarts."

The two bullies took a step back, almost involuntarily.

"What would the new first years think if they saw something like this? They might get completely the wrong idea."

The newcomer took a step forward, steam curling away to reveal a tall girl with slightly wild brown hair and a friendly smile.

"You see, I'm a prefect now," she continued, gesturing to the shiny blue badge she had already pinned to her cardigan.

As one, the trio's eyes drifted a couple of centimetres to the left, towards a small, circular pin bearing the stylised insignia of a sun.

"I really can't let this kind of thing just _happen_ ," she continued.

The couple drew closer together, holding tight onto each other.

The girl tipped her head to the side, as if considering a difficult problem. "But then, I suppose it is the first day of school. You were probably all just overexcited, weren't you?"

All three nodded.

"So I think it would be best if you just headed back to the train now, don't you?"

The trio turned to leave.

"Oh, and Evan?" his rescuer called. "If there's any more trouble in future, you can always come and talk to me. I'm sure I could help."

Evan paused.

"Thank you, General Granger." It was best to be polite.

She smiled. "You can call me Hermione."

He nodded, hurrying after his tormentors.

He would never go to her. He had heard the rumours. Even after everything they had done to him, they didn't deserve _that_.

 

Hermione watched the three third-years hurrying away.

"You'd better keep an eye on those two, Malfoy," she called.

"I'll deal with it my way, Granger." Rolling his eyes, Draco stepped away from the wall and headed towards her. "So, you made Prefect?"

"Obviously. And you did too."

He, too, was wearing his badge, the Slytherin emerald contrasting sharply with the flame he wore next to it.

"Stop the evasion and get to the point," Draco told her. "You waited until Harry was saying goodbye to his parents and you made sure I saw you leaving. Whatever you want to say, we don't have long before he comes looking for us."

"Like you don't already know." Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Has he told you anything?"

"Of course not, or I would have found a way to let you know." Draco had been staying with Harry's family over the summer, but his attempts to learn more had all failed.

"No clues?" Hermione didn't look hopeful.

Draco paused. "He isn't a Prefect."

That got a reaction, albeit one that few would notice. A slight raising of the eyebrows, a tightening of the jaw – Hermione had been practising schooling her expression for several years, but there were always clues, if you knew the person well enough.

But then, Draco hardly needed her expression to reveal the surprise she must be feeling.

"I presume you've heard the official rumours?" Draco asked.

"Of course," Hermione acknowledged. "But we both know why that's impossible."

"True…" He let a hint of doubt creep into his voice.

She raised an eyebrow. "We were there. We saw it. What more evidence do you need?"

He shook his head. "But what else could it be? What wouldn't he tell us? He –" He dropped his voice, conscious that this place, though difficult to find, was still technically public. "He's changed, Hermione."

"None of us are the same people we used to be," she said coldly.

Draco just shook his head. She would understand soon enough, and then she would start to wonder too. How had Cedric Diggory died? Was Voldemort really back?

What exactly had happened to Harry in that maze?


	2. Error Propagation

It always took Draco a little while to get used to the idea of Hogwarts again.

It seemed strange, after spending the summer holidays with Harry, to remember that there existed such a place – a place where "quantum" was a nonsense word, where no-one kept you up until two in the morning arguing about the relative merits of Light Yagami and Gaius Baltar, where it was _possible_ to be more than ten metres from a Terry Pratchett book. In short, a place where no-one had even an inkling about the magnificent world of _science_.

When Draco caught himself thinking like this, he sometimes began to wonder if Ravenclaw was catching.

But, if it was, it was probably not something you would catch by spending the summer with Harry. There had been that day trip to Aldermaston, for instance – most definitely unsupervised, and if it really wasn't, as Harry had claimed, _technically_ illegal, that was almost certainly only because the lawyers of the world had not yet encountered anyone like Harry.

Even everyday life with his friend, host and roommate was something of a mystery – the continuing dearth of communication on the subject of the events of their last term remained an unspoken challenge, but Draco was more concerned by the night he had been woken by the distinct and dreadful sound of a finger snap to find Harry's bed empty and his clothes missing. Draco had decided on that occasion it was best to act as though he hadn't noticed anything – although his resolve on that front had nearly been broken when he saw the headline of the next day's Prophet.

But the joys of summer could not last forever. The inevitable letter had arrived, bearing with it the new Slytherin Prefect badge. Petunia had hugged him when he told her and Michael the news, even though Harry hadn't got a badge – something he insisted he didn't care about, which Draco had filed in the increasingly large category of reasons for concern – and they had given him some privacy when, five minutes later, a congratulatory owl arrived from his father.

He must have written that letter _weeks_ before to get it through all the security scans in time.

And now Draco was headed back to Hogwarts at last, where all he had to worry about was the approaching O.W.L.s, the complicated political manoeuvrings of the Slytherin Common Room, and, as always, the leadership of Dragon Army.

Draco smiled to himself slightly, remembering his first return to Hogwarts after a summer away. He had still lived with his father then, of course, and he had thought that the Defence Armies were well and truly finished.

Just like the teacher who had invented them.

Their second Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher had been some airheaded celebrity – Professor Lockhart, the one who had eventually been chased out of the school by a particularly vicious swarm of pixies whose origin had never been conclusively proven.

Before the end of their first week, Harry had gotten restless.

"How are we supposed to learn Defence like this?"

"This is how it normally is at Hogwarts," the older students told him. "You'll get used to it."

This had prompted Harry to give Draco a long speech about the tradition fallacy, which had somehow ended with Draco accompanying both Harry and Hermione to McGonagall's office for a conversation about _O.W.L.s_ of all things – which he still could not believe had actually worked.

They had won the right to reinstate three armies, to be available to the entire student body – although since House Points would no longer be awarded for the winning team, a somewhat lower turnout was expected, and certainly at first most of the older students seemed more interested in Quidditch.

Each term, anyone who wanted to join an army could nominate themselves to be a leader, and the three most popular would then be allowed to choose lieutenants before being randomly assigned the remaining soldiers.

To this day, only three leaders had ever been nominated.

So Dragon Army, Sunshine Regiment and Chaos Legion lived on – just another Hogwarts club, at first, mostly consisting of their fellow second years, discussing tactics in empty classrooms and booking the Quidditch Pitch one afternoon every month to battle in front of half a dozen spectators and a disinterested Madam Hooch.

By the end of Draco's third year, the random ballot for the forty soldiers of each army had received almost double that number of entries, and the turnout at the deciding battle had rivalled that of a typical Quidditch game.

And then, last year, the battles had been cancelled. The Quidditch pitch had been unavailable, hosting instead the fateful maze into which two Hogwarts students had entered, and from which only one had returned.

It was, like many involving Harry, a series of events which had rapidly become legendary.

The wizarding world had its own explanation, but Draco knew it could not possibly be correct.

Could it?

Only one person knew, and, to this day, he had refused to speak a word on the subject.

 

After the prefect briefing at the start of the train journey, Draco allowed himself to get waylaid by a discussion with Crabbe and Goyle, giving Granger a chance to talk to Harry alone. When he had ventured down the train, he had been surprised to discover Harry's compartment was still empty – a conspicuous anomaly in a train packed with students.

Harry was, of course, reading. He had always read a lot, Draco had to admit, but this summer he had taken the habit to extremes. He did not look up when Draco entered the compartment, or give any sign of acknowledging Draco's presence. Most would have thought it rude, but Draco was already used to what had become Harry's new norm.

"Any sign of Granger?" he asked.

Harry shrugged and flicked over a page. Draco glanced at the upside down book, knowing that it would be a good barometer of Harry's mood. His attention was immediately drawn by the strange pictograms along the bottom of each page.

Artemis Fowl.

It could have been worse.

"She was here earlier." Harry suddenly said, as though the question had been phrased moments, rather than almost a full minute, before.

Draco wondered why she had departed the compartment again. Perhaps she had needed to see someone else?

Suddenly, Harry glanced up at him, and Draco realised it had been weeks since they had looked at each other eye to eye.

"She asked about the maze," Harry said.

Draco almost wanted to groan. Granger should know better. You couldn't just _ask_ Harry that kind of thing. Because –

Because –

Because, Draco's rationalist side admitted, there were several topics that he tactfully avoided over the holidays with Harry, to preserve their mutual peace of mind and, quite possibly, their entire friendship. When it came to certain facets of their past, they knew each other far better than they wanted, or _ought_ to be reminded of.

And so, by some unspoken agreement, there were things they did not mention. Draco's father. Harry's mentor. And, most of all, those various events which still regularly sent one or the other of them jolting, sweat soaked, into alertness in the darkest hours of the night, while the other lay silent and feigned an unknowing slumber.

If Draco had learned anything this summer, it was that Harry's experiences in the maze, whatever else they might have been, lay firmly in the third category.

But, of course, Hermione had no such restrictions and, timidity having failed so thoroughly thus far, had no reason not to address the problem directly.

Draco had the sudden urge to ask Harry if it had worked, but his eyes were already back on the page and the moment had passed.

For several seconds, Draco waited. Harry had to have something more to say, surely? Or should he –

"Do you know about error propagation?" Harry asked.

"A little." Draco felt like he would never know enough about science, but he was learning more all the time.

As a rule, a question like that from Harry meant that in the next five minutes he was going to learn more than he would from three books.

It had been far too long since Harry had last asked him that kind of question.

"When you take experimental measurements, they aren't completely accurate," Draco recalled. "You are limited by your equipment, or by random variations in the result. The most accurate you can be is to give a range of values that your measurement lies within."

Harry smiled slightly, although he did not look up again.

"Everything has an error," he said. "Nothing can ever be completely accurate. And anything calculated using a measurement has to take the error into account, so the more measurements you add together the greater the error is."

Harry flicked his fingers, turning another page.

"The most dangerous kind of measurement is one where you don't know the error. It tricks you into thinking that you have something accurate, but it's completely meaningless. A readout of 13.47 is useless if the range is plus or minus a thousand. Every observation you make, the most important part is to know what the error is."

Draco knew better than to let a comment like that pass unchallenged.

"What about binary outputs?" he asked. "On or off. Yes or no."

"Dead or alive?"

Harry's expression didn't change, not by so much as a millimetre. A chill ran down Draco's spine.

"Tell that to Schrödinger's Cat."

"Most binary systems aren't affected by quantum superpositions," Draco pointed out.

Harry turned the page again. Draco wondered if he was actually reading the words in front of him, or just watching them pass.

"What decides a binary output? We compare the input to some threshold: above or below. It's a human imposition on a more complex continuum. Just the kind of danger I was talking about. At the threshold is where the errors lie."

"Errors in _death_?"

"Why not? Doctors – Healers – can save someone who should have died. Muggles and magic can both take someone you or I would call dead and bring them back to perfect health. How do you know where to draw the line?"

Draco didn't point out that, if you thought this way, nothing made any sense. He had given up on that argument a long time ago.

"How can you put a number on an error like that?"

"You can't." Harry breathed out heavily, and Draco wondered if it was a sigh. "But you have to be aware that they exist. Know that the measurement isn't perfect. Remember to doubt your theories."

Draco nodded, and another question occurred to him.

"So if errors propagate everywhere, how can we ever reduce them enough to get a meaningful answer?"

Harry paused for a second before answering, and for the first time, those green eyes stopped flickering behind the glasses, staring unblinking at some fixed point far beyond the page.

"Repeated measurements," Harry said, so quietly the words were almost drowned out by the rumble of the train on the tracks and the muffled voices floating in from the corridor. "It's the only way to become more certain."

He turned the page once more, and Draco knew the conversation was over. He had the sense that they had just discussed something very important, perhaps even vital to understanding the recent changes in his friend.

He just wished he had some idea what that was.

Perhaps Granger would know.


	3. Reasonable Doubt

Draco had very carefully not looked at Hermione as they had left the Prefect briefing, and so Hermione knew that she needed to have a word in private with Harry. Clearly, Draco's chosen method of finding out what they needed to know – namely, waiting around in the futile hope that Harry would decide he needed to talk – wasn't going to work.

She found Harry's compartment easily – it was the one with a large crowd of people gathered outside pretending they weren't looking at Harry, who in turn was pretending he hadn't noticed their presence.

"Excuse me," Hermione asked politely. The crowd parted, and she made her way to the compartment door, shutting it behind her and drawing the blinds across the window for good measure.

Such an act was in flagrant disregard of their policy against fuelling any of the many rumours which surrounded them, and she expected Harry to glare up at her as soon as their privacy was ensured, pointing out her 'mistake' with a roll of the eyes and that expression which said in deafening silence: "I thought you were supposed to be _smart_."

A year ago, that's precisely what he would have done.

Now, Harry kept reading. He didn't so much as glance up at Hermione, refusing to tear his eyes away from whatever text had him so intrigued. With a creeping feeling of dread, Hermione wondered if he really hadn't noticed the crowd watching him.

It seemed things were worse than she'd thought.

She took a seat next to Harry.

"Good summer?" she asked.

He shrugged wordlessly.

Hermione waited for a few seconds to see if he would speak, but she quickly lost patience.

"Come on," she insisted. "I read the papers. That was you in Aldermaston, wasn't it?"

Another shrug. "It was Draco's idea."

Hermione didn't say a lot of things. She didn't say: you told us years ago you had a plan for Aldermaston. She didn't say: if you've been like this all summer I bet Draco only suggested actually doing it because he thought it might _wake_ _you_ _up_.

She didn't say: did it work?

But Harry still had his nose in that damned book, and, for once, he did not answer the questions she did not ask.

"Harry," she said gently. "What happened in that maze?"

He froze, a slight tensing of the muscles which would have passed unnoticed had it been witnessed by nearly anyone else.

Hermione began to wonder if she would regret asking.

Slowly, Harry retrieved a leather bookmark tucked against the back cover of the text, placing it carefully at his current position before folding the book closed and transferring it to the seat next to him.

Only then did he finally look up, meeting Hermione's eyes with a stare so intense it felt almost invasive.

Hermione felt her pulse quickening, but she did not look away.

"What do you think happened?" Harry spoke flatly and without intonation, and unwanted memories sprung to Hermione's mind. She tried to ignore them.

"Cedric Diggory died," she answered – the one fact that everyone agreed upon.

Harry blinked slowly at her, and she had the sudden impression that more was required.

"Everyone is saying it was… Voldemort." She forced herself to use that name, not the more familiar epithet. She hadn't used the other name in front of Harry for over three years.

Harry kept staring.

"But… it can't have been?" Hermione bit her lip, suddenly doubting everything she had thought she knew. Even like this, Harry could still turn her view of the world inside out.

"Harry…" She knew it had to be said, and Draco would never dare to say it. It was up to her.

She forced the words out.

"We saw him _die_."

She didn't know what she had expected Harry to do – flinch, turn away, say _something_ – but her expectations were not met. Harry just kept staring at her, impassive, as though she were an interesting experiment in need of close observation.

"Harry…"

She wanted to say: you have to tell someone. You can't just keep it bottled up like this. It'll drive you insane. But Hermione knew better than to tell Harry what he could and couldn't do.

She looked away, no longer able to bear his gaze, and found herself on her feet before she even knew that _she_ _had_ _to_ _get_ _out_ _of_ _here_. She strode across to the door and slammed it shut behind her, the crowd of hopeful bystanders scattering before the wake of her rage.

With eyes dry and expression unclouded, although breaths coming perhaps a little heavier than was necessary, Hermione Granger leaned for a moment against the compartment door in the suddenly empty corridor to collect her thoughts.

And, out of the corner of her eye, she saw through a gap in a blinds a hand lift a book off of the seat, open it, and begin to read once more.

 

Hermione pretended not to notice that her knock on the compartment door had silenced the four girls inside, or that none of them moved to invite her in.

"Do you mind if I join you?" she said, stepping inside.

Lavender Brown, Padma Patil, Daphne Greengrass and Susan Bones did not speak as she sat down.

Ever the Slytherin, Daphne was the first to break the silence, smiling warmly at her.

"Susan was just telling us about her aunt."

Lavender and Susan, not quite so subtle, exchanged a meaningful glance.

"She was at the Ministry this summer, when …everything happened." Susan admitted quietly.

Oh. Hermione nodded. … _Everything_. No wonder Susan looked a little shaken up.

Hermione wondered if any of the other girls in this room suspected that Harry had a hand in …everything.

She had no proof of that, of course. It wasn't the kind of thing you could just ask about, especially not in public. Quite aside from anything else, if Harry had been involved then he should have had himself obliviated, so he wouldn't be able to tell her anything. If, for some ridiculous reason, he hadn't, then she certainly didn't want to be the one to draw suspicion onto him.

Hermione wasn't even sure if she was possible for one person to be responsible for something like that. Unfortunately, that only made it seem more likely that Harry was.

The whole wizarding world was talking about it. There hadn't been an issue of the Prophet which didn't mention it since it had happened. And if there really had been someone behind it, they were probably the most wanted wizard in Britain.

The whole country wanted to know how thousands of Dementors had managed to lay siege to the Ministry of Magic.

"She can do a Patronus though, can't she?" Padma asked.

"Yes," Susan said quietly. "But she says it almost wasn't enough."

It had all begun in their third year – or at least, most of it had. Harry had hated Dementors since he had first heard of them, of course, and the promise to Draco had come before, but it was their third year, with Hogwarts surrounded by Dementors after the escape of Sirius Black – only then had Harry finally turned to them and explained that he had a _plan_.

This summer had not been part of the plan.

But… it wasn't exactly _against_ it, either.

"My parents say they won't feel safe again until every Dementor in the country has been exiled." Padma shivered.

"I don't blame them," said Daphne.

Precisely.

Dementors were a menace (so Harry had said, two years ago). They were evil, and they were wrong, and everyone who had encountered one _knew_ that.

The problem was that people thought Dementors were somehow okay provided they were a long way away and happening to people who they thought deserved it.

Draco had said that no-one deserved it, and Harry had said obviously, no-one did, there wasn't anything you could do to deserve _that_ and Hermione had been the tiniest bit amazed that, after everything, Harry could still say that like it really was obvious.

Harry had gone on to say that the problem with Dementors was that people felt safer with them around, even though it was patently obvious to anyone who had ever met one that that was a stupid way to think and Dementors would turn on you in a second if they thought they would get away with it.

Hermione tried very hard not to think about how Harry had spent all of five minutes with a Dementor and, while those five minutes had definitely been memorable, he sounded far better informed than he had any right to be.

Harry had said that he had lots of ideas for getting rid of Dementors, but that the major problem was that people didn't _want_ to get rid of the Dementors.

Harry had said that it was simple: all they had to do was change that.

So The Plan had been simple: change public opinion on the Dementors. The case of _how_ had been far more interesting – a test on their ingenuity and influence. Letters had been sent. Teachers had been complained to. Luna Lovegood had been won over.

By Christmas, every Hogwarts student had gone home with a complaint about how the Dementors were disrupting their studies, and the Quibbler bore dramatic headlines prophesying unprovoked attacks.

It hadn't been much, and it didn't look like they would achieve anything.

And then January arrived, and a Dementor disappeared.

It was only one, gone missing from the Hogwarts roll one frosty day, but suddenly the idea that there was a Dementor on the loose had been terrifying. The Daily Prophet was full of complaints, asking what was being done to ensure the safety of the students.

The rest of the Dementors were gone by Valentine's Day.

By the end of the year, there were calls for a public enquiry into the use of Dementors in the penal system, and the Ministry of Magic announced that, until a decision was reached, all minimum security prisoners would be transferred out of Azkaban into a newly constructed, Dementor free prison.

The Plan hadn't been over, of course, but in the past year they had been rather distracted, and there hadn't seemed to be a lot left to do. After all, what could they do to convince the Ministry to abolish Dementors completely?

And then …everything.

"My aunt said it was total chaos."

Chaos had been the word for it, by all accounts. Fortunately, no souls lost (and if that wasn't Harry's hand at work Hermione didn't know how to explain it) but nearly fifty visitors and employees hospitalised. Several of the highest level Ministry staff – including, it seemed, Susan's Aunt Amelia – had been trapped in the building for the better part of a day before emergency aid from Europe had been called in to finally drive the Dementors out.

Yes, chaos was the right word.

It was also, Hermione had noticed, the _only_ word anyone seemed to be using. For five editions, the Prophet had used it almost obsessively.

It could have been a coincidence.

Or the Prophet knew something and had been told to keep the story quiet.

If the word chaos was the hint, then surely Harry had to be the answer – but, why would he be so _obvious_? – but, who would _know_ outside of Hogwarts? – but, it wasn't exactly _subtle_ – but, did Harry even _care_ any more?

She really, really hoped he'd had himself obliviated.

If nothing else, that would mean he couldn't do it again.

**Author's Note:**

> As may be somewhat obvious from the dates, this fic is on indefinite hiatus and is unlikely to update for the foreseeable future.


End file.
